An Assassin's Affection
by Ea Skyrah
Summary: Kidnapped by the Hybern gang and forced to lose her memories, Nesta's reigns as a feared assassin, a viper for vices. A failed mission and a hazel eyed man from her past wrecks the facade built. However, she's not the little girl everyone remembers her to be, nor will ever be.
1. Chapter 1

More like between a prologue and introduction. Sorry if you fall asleep.

* * *

 _"your thoughts kill you, don't they?"_

Nesssian Assassin 1

In the dark, the shape of a black-clad woman moved with years of elegance and unspoken grace as she skimmed the edge of the building. She quickly slung the leather bag off her shoulders, yanking the familiar cold metal of the Venom Tactical Taipan onto the rooftops. Setting the attached visor over her forehead, she tapped the link piece hook up through a single wire in her ear.

"All clear," she mumbled to herself, brutally efficiently setting the weapon up. Her fingers strummed the rifle as her instrument, clicking and checking every gear before she settled into a prone position. The wind bit at her face, a ghost of an animal.

Clicking on the eye mask, the suction clung to her skin. The machine whirred and focused with every detailed resolution onto the mansion complex. One single window had been opened, and one remain so only for a short time. Her index finger brushed over the trigger, and she aimed her target at the man leaning against the wall, almost as if blending in the shadows, his dark pants and fitted shirt dark as midnight. The one who had leaked thousands of plans and foiled them with their recovery. He had been wanted by her agency for years. And she finally had her window.

Today, he would have to face the consequences of snooping.

It was time for the spymaster to tell no more secrets.

The bullet flew from its barrel and pierced the air at the perfect arc Nesta had executed flawlessly every time.

Except that this time her target did not hit.

She hadn't missed—no.

This was worse.

A second, unplanned male, definitely larger and more noticeable, wearing a rutting pink shirt, took the bullet for her target, crashing down from the ceiling. No one told her there would be a second person.

A curse escaped her lips. Her employer would not be happy.

The sound of alarms had her packing faster and retreating back into the darkness of the shadows her target has seemed so at ease with, and out and away from the pink-shirted man doubling over in pain.

It was regular for the spymaster to dodge bullets that Nesta had always shot at him. He'd been the first and last man to always miss her poison-laced bullets, so he knew there was specifically one individual out for his death.

This should have been it, her last time chasing his tail.

Nesta gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove the black sedan back to her organization's temporary base, dreading the outcome.

If only she had made it.

* * *

Tomas whipped her for her first failed mission. Kidnapped and forced to submit in the sex trade for ten years, he had chained her and had many generals with passing faces train her. Never once did she think of her past life except for the lingering doubt if her sisters missed her. All she needed was a warm bed and food, and she could survive.

Except most of the time, the beds were forced into another male's who would have to paw at her as she cried with paralyzing poison flowing through her veins and heavy sedations pumping through her.

She needed out.

Needed to end Tomas, who would keep coming at her. And finding ways to punish her, like this whipping, each flick of his wrist harder than the last.

Nesta took each blow with gritted teeth, forcing herself to remain silent. He'd taken her failure especially hard since she'd been the first girl he picked to kidnap. She had to be perfect. Machine-like. Utterly broken.

And she was.

The first lash had her back arching of the ground.

The second had her whimpering, much to her dismay.

The second had her quivering.

The third had her sobbing.

The fourth had her unconscious.

The fifth had her jaw splintered against the ground.

The sixth had her blood bathing her body and the cobblestones.

The sixth had her flesh torn, revealing her bones.

The seventh had her wailing.

The eighth had her numb.

The ninth had her limp.

The tenth had her silent.

They left her body on the cement until she woke up, her next mission in a neat manila folder in front of her, the only part of the floor untouched by the blood seeping from her mangled flesh.

Closing her eyes briefly, she chanted her sister's names for thirty seconds, the most saved amount of time she'd allow herself for respite. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she flipped the folder open, warily glancing over the paper.

"Fuck," she swore, slamming her fist against the ground, not caring that her knuckles splintered. Numbness had already swept through her body. She'd already been sucked into this life.

There was no way her second youngest sister could be, too.

Except this time not to be trained into one of the assets, but as a target with a bullet through her head.

 _Forty million for target Feyre Archeron._

Another swore left her lips. She could never live a normal life, could she? Just what in rutting hell did her sister do to aim herself the sticker from one of the most notorious underground crime organizations?

Not feeling like briefing through the rest of the papers, she slammed it shut and wobbled to the bench where a sorry excuse for a medical kit sat in the corner. Every movement hurt her back and had her grunting in pain. She needed stitches, and no one in the compound would be able to do so without actually exacerbating her wounds.

There were only killers here; no healers or caretakers. Just bloodthirsty monsters seeking the sight of submission and defeat, and Nesta would not give them that. Not when they called her the real life Black Widow, not when her codename was the Phoenix.

She'd laughed at first, thinking of the pettiness and the redundancy. But then she realized its truthfulness. Her life had ended as soon as she fell for Tomas's sweet smile and outstretched hand, and as soon as the first injection of morphine and other drugs pumped through her system.

She'd risen, but not from the ashes. She'd risen from gunpowder, blood, and sweat. She lived in the grime and the darkness and she was not the fire-breathing Phoenix of rising hope spiraling in the Sun's rays.

She was the Silent Phoenix, the bringer of swift death, the one who flew in the shadows and streaks.

If only the stupid pink-shirted man hadn't been there. Tomas had called her a liar, saying their intel had been clear, and that it would just be the spymaster there.

Nesta knew what her eyes saw, and would have to do serious recon. The shadow-like man had been her assignment for years and had been her most elusive. She had been assigned other backward recon and other heists, most killing the spymaster remained her most frustrating.

And now this most recent one topped everything.

Wrapping a makeshift bandage, Nesta flung open the iron door and held her high as she marched out the building. Didn't stop when she felt part of the bandage rip and the blood soak down the back of her shirt.

She would have to rekindle her ties with her sisters, it seemed.


	2. Chapter 2

The dark-haired female stares at herself in the mirror, staring at every blemish and scar decorating her own face. If she'd been a tapestry, she'd been strung and strewn over layers of needlework, many loose strings and scissors surrounding her. ~ Ea Skyrah

Feel free to PM me prompts.

* * *

 _"Oh, how your kingdom will fall_

 _when you find that your discarded pawn_

 _was the queen all along"_

Varian had patched her silently as she stared blandly at the wall. The faint sounds of water droplets hitting the cement broke the silence, with the atmosphere of the void of emptiness persisting. The empty warehouse had been a meeting point of theirs, just to trade information that leaked through her employer's mouth or the ones that the streets whispered when she coasted on the rooftops; he just told her anything she asked to ease her mission stuffed into her arms she had no part she desired of.

One of the notorious underground crime lords, he had become one of her unlikely allies as she had posed as one of his escorts to kill one of his contacts—also one of Tomas's targets. Varian hadn't noticed her among his personal escorts and immediately ordered her capture, but she'd escape, only to see him the next day, holding a silver dagger through the heart of one of her targets. He offered a deal, and she took it, needing every ounce of help and assistance she could find in this black and dark world where it seemed only monsters thrive.

He slew the last stitch through her, a slight hiss escaping her throat. A tap to her wrist indicated that he was done, and she flexed her shoulders.

She knew Varian had most likely looked her up as soon as they started seeing each other in the most unlikely places that was not meant for a consort. It didn't matter as soon as he saw her snap the neck of one of the other target's bodyguards and shoot the target through the head. He knew that she wasn't pure and what she stood for. He knew who she worked for, and had stood disgusted, not that she blamed him.

Until she could pay off her debts to Tomas for the shelter, however unwillingly, and all the weapons she used, she remained hostage to him. Varian had set up a trust fund in the underground markets for her, and some nights, she would see him surreptitiously dropping a gold coin or two into her bank deposit.

He was the Phoenix's shadow, or no way near her guardian angel. An older brother of sorts. They had never had a full on normal conservation, discussing this arrangement of theirs, but Nesta didn't mind.

She pressed a ruby necklace in his hand, the one he'd been eyeing from the shops the last time they'd stood together at the end of the sewers, searching for one of the other crime lord's one-eyed informats scurrying around.

A faint smile graced his lips and he slipped the pendant into his pocket. She changed out of the hospital gown cut open at the back and into her gear as he washed his hands with brutal efficiency, packing his medical kit. She saluted him as she headed for the door, throwing open the metal panel. However, before he returned her usual farewell with a tip of his hat, and jumped out the window, he whispered a request in her ear, leaving her face ashen for a split-second.

Nesta nodded, and a viper's smile formed on her face.

* * *

The hardest part of the ordeal was shopping for clothes. She had headed for the athletic section, still finding the entirely cotton shirts worthless and unnervingly short pants absolutely ridiculous.

Dismissing one of the store employers who didn't seem to know the difference between a strain and a sprain, Nesta grabbed a set of blouses and other unnecessary pairs of jeans that would hinder her maximum performance if she was caught in the middle of a fight. The most dangerous enemies knew what her true face looked like without a mask and would most likely be tracking her every moment.

She didn't like this different approach, and gritted her teeth as she went to the cash register. When the worker dared to short-change her, Nesta called the manager and threatened to sue, pulling up her shades to indicate that she meant business. The tiny man had profusely apologized and let her choose another set of clothes for free, in which she took up, sneaking in a pair of boots when the cameras weren't looking.

Sighing, she closed her trunk shut, and cursed loudly as her earpiece crackled into existence.

"Get your fine piece of ass over to second base," Tomas said, and then shut down the link.

Nesta instantly shut her car door, and changed into her gear, sending a blessing for the tinted windows. By the time she arrived at the warehouse, the clouds had matched her mood, gray streaks piercing the air. Soft rain pattered down her windshield, and Nesta shoved her bags under the seat lest one of Tomas's goons catch sight of her non-contraband materials by any chance.

When she stalked inside, forcing herself to loosen her muscles, the man of her nightmares sat at the head of a table, another of his acquaintances in a black trench suit sitting on his left.

The man turned, and she recognized the one-eyed man. Or at least, now two-eyed man. Varian had pinched out the other orb at as a means of last resort in extracting information when the man wouldn't speak of Tomas's plans.

"Hello, Nesta." Tomas grinned, and gestured to the empty seat to his right. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Dining with the wolves. Her favorite.

She obediently sat, wondering why he was here. Varian nor her hadn't tipped him off of who she was, wearing one of her random masks that she fine-tuned to change a bit in appearance every time she hit the streets.

"This here is a man who was attempting to rise to the top of the hierarchy." Tomas gleefully gestured to his left, but the man showed no indication of hearing. Her employer frowned, eyes flashing. "You see, Nesta, he's blind because two bitches on the streets took his eye. The first was his employer, and the second a man he wants to kill."

She slid a dagger out of her sleeve, and glanced at the man warily. Those pinkish, dirty yellow colors swirling around in his eyes were the first sign of infection. He should be demanding treatment, but—

"Tonight, this man will take you, and then you will continue with your latest mission." Those black eyes pitied against, and Nesta felt bile roll up in her mouth. It had been a month since her employer had scheduled her appointment in the sex trade, choosing instead to use her abilities out on the field where a different type of monster of degradement awaited.

The man, looking straight ahead, placed a pair of steel chains on the table, the clinking sound having her insides shudder. She knew what he wanted to do to her, and her toes curled in protest.

"No," Nesta said, watching the man's eyes furrow. "No," she repeated, this time louder.

"No?" Tomas snapped, almost disbelievingly. "You don't have any choices here. You have no say and no freedom, and no right to decline."

Her eyes turned to storm, and her back straightened, a pillar of steel and ice. "You had no right to kidnap me a rape me no more than any other female around here. You shaped me into a weapon when I was weak. You are lucky I continue to kill and pay my debts that I should never had accumulated in the first place. So no, Tomas, look for another girl to pick on."

"You will respect me!" Tomas roared, and within a second, a whip laid wrapped around his wrists.

She flinched, and he grinned, one smile full of vile and vices. The way he moved that whip—

Nesta lifted her head. "This is not respect. This is control and dominance. This is _abuse_."

The other man cocked his head, rubbing a knuckle. Slowly, his head turned towards Tomas, who was breathing heavily. "She's a bitch, isn't she?" He lowered his voice. "I don't need to see her to know what fun she'll be under me."

"I may be a bitch, but no female deserves to be treated like _this_ ," Nesta hissed, and flung the dagger outwards, a second following a different path. She didn't watch them hit their targets as she fled the building, starting the engine.

No one followed her as she jerked the truck forward, the taste of blood clogging her nostrils and the tang of metal ringing in her ears.

* * *

The bar was a sorry excuse for one, with cheap shots and disgusting liquid that stung as it poured down her throat. Nesta didn't care, as long as no one recognized her. She'd braided her hair and changed into one of the fruitless pieces of material that exposed more skin than she'd liked. Loud music drained out any thoughts as she tried to imagine the expressions that would cloud the other trained faces she's seen walking in the hallways—what they would think when their boss no more.

She knew someone would seek retaliation against her for the second man's death. There was always unwarranted ties and unspoken alliances that spun through the underground streets, fueling the tensions and cracks in their bittered society. The second man's eyes had been gutted partly because of her, and his death had been laid in her hands. His last wisps of air, Nesta had decided, would serve as a symbol to others that would seek vengeance against her.

Her blade had flung at an expert arc horizontally that had sliced through his neck completely. A beheading.

An execution. Those soulless eyes had blinked no more.

Tomas was a different story.

It had been unspeakable to lay a hand nor speak a syllable in front of her master. There were no consequences for killing a boss since no one would dare in the first place. Except Nesta knew she hadn't murdered Tomas with the first blade that had landed directly between his eyes. If she had, she would have accumulated more death and decay her already full plate would have no means of rejecting.

She'd thrown the dagger so softly at Tomas it'd barely pierce his flesh. No, at most the blade would hit his frontal bone and spur him unconscious. He'd bleed out, risk brain damage, but be alive—and live to torture another soul.

He wouldn't die by her hand. She had made sure of that.

 _"I need a body to experiment a new drug on,_ " Varian had whispered in the warehouse hours ago. " _By the end of the day_."

So Nesta had obliged, providing him with Tomas's body.

Varian had headed over and stolen his body, interrogating his last minutes on Earth. He had asked why she'd provided him with this body over the blind man's; she'd only replied with a sick smile plastered on her face, over their untraceable phone, " _It's_ him."

The man who had created this nightmare and kept her under it for years—when she needed respite with peaceful dreams rather than the undulating, poisonous thoughts. The one who had touched her where she had deserved to be worshipped. The man who had broke her when she needed someone to build her up.

So Varian had informed her he had pumped Tomas's body with morphine and other drugs to keep his brain fluids from leaking and heart beating—so that after the tested the opiate, he could further wreck pain like no other on Tomas's body.

Nesta had merely stated to make sure that his dick was caught off and he was whipped.

Tomas's last moments here wouldn't be pretty, nor would it be grand. It would be brutal and messy, Varian gutting apart each socket and stuffing pins and needles through his sunken flesh.

A cold smile seared her face, and she sipped the cup harshly.

"You're looking a little tense there, sweetheart." A male voice, dripping honey, appeared next to her. A large, well-built body slid in the stool next to her. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Beautiful, deep brown eyes with ropes of corded muscle that white-collared shirt could not hide. Each movement had a ripple of tendon as he flexed his arms in a casual manner Nesta knew all too well. He looked oddly familiar as he waved the bartender over, and there was something to that rugged face that sent her on edge.

No _rutting_ way. Even though that shot had been across ten buildings, she would never forget that smirk as her bullet had sunken through the wrong person. Her first missed shot. Her first whipping. Her first realization that she deserved more, than just pain and emptiness.

His own appearance didn't seem quite as fully relaxed, those arms tense as if readying for a fight. The gauze and pad on his shoulder had her more suspicious. Her nail jabbed it, not too nicely. "Where did you get that?"

The male huffed and flinched as pain shot through his shoulder. "Just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

That confirmed her fears and she flung out of the seat and headed towards the bathroom. A sense of calm rage appeared over her, and senseless feelings of violence and the absence of peace had long nagged at her. Two women emerged from the bathroom, clad in skimpy clothing and red lipstick dotting their mouths.

She froze as they passed her, completely oblivious to her ignorance.

Those mouse brown strands of hair, one shorter than the other, her giggle—the older one's hand on the younger's elbow as they sashayed onto the dance floor—

Her sisters were in town.

Nesta cursed herself and the world as she went into the parking lot, the cold air kissing her skin. She found herself shivering for no reason, not when this night was nothing compared to others of being locked outside, chained to a lamppost, where other males would paw and jeer at her.

She didn't know silent tears had flowed down her face until a thumb gently wiped it away, and the male at the bar stood in front of her. It had taken her entire willpower to allow him to sneak up on her and let him carry on his business. Except she didn't think he would approach _her._

"I'm Cassian," he offered, his own body radiating heat and warmth.

She deserved to rot in empty coldness for every body that was now decaying and decomposing because of her. They taught her to have no remorse, and to not think except to focus on her next assignment. But Nesta was human and had a family before, so she'd transformed into a shell instead of a truly empty weapon. She'd become fixed between knowing her own mortality and the deaths of others, her mind shattered beyond repaired. There was no healing and mending save for her own injuries.

Cassian stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Crying is just a sign of being strong for too long." He hesitated for a second before extending an open palm. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"

Nesta looked down at his hand. At what he could give her: happiness and contentment and undeserved fortitude.

So she stared at him, letting that calm mask fall over her face. "No," she firmly said, and headed towards her truck. She could feel the other male's eyes burning in hers, and she wondered if he had been outright rejected before.

 _No._

She needed to think, and Cassian had already started to plague her mind. Too much emotion in too little time—her sisters were here, and Nesta needed to get her hands on that file, and see what Tomas accusations against Feyre had deemed her worthy of death.

As she started pulled the gears in reverse, the male stood outside the bar, his hands in his pockets, watching her go—and flee from him as usual.

"She doesn't recognize me." He grinned into his earpiece. "At all."


	3. Chapter 3

A dark-haired female locks herself up in her room and wipes away her tears, and bites down on her cracked lips, ire and bitterness darkening her dulled, brown her eyes, and starts to write, back hunched over a wrinkled piece of lined paper. - Ea Skyrah

Nesta's like Kaz Brekker, Bucky Barnes, and Natasha Romanoff rolled into one.

Feel free to PM me prompts!

* * *

Simple, but needed.

* * *

Nesta stared at her reflection in the mirror.

An artist perhaps would have painted her face as a moon's pale surface, clouded and distorted with crater-like indents, her cheeks sunken in. Never had her skin touched the sun's rays, her missions in the dead night. Mornings she slept, planned, and dreamt.

Tomas injected her with poisons so that she'd fall asleep and build her immunity.

Tomas had her concoct her next murder for a person who had dared meddle with hiss plans

Tomas allowed her nightmares, flashes of visions of tightened shackles, cold metal, and rusted bones.

She rubbed her arms, feeling the markings of where IV tubes had pumped chemical enhancements and other liquids for nourishment. The daily injections served to numb her so that the only emotion that dared to seep in was pain.

She blew a piece of hair that had fallen across her nose.

Once her hair boasted of golden brown hues, time reducing each strand to a dull, lifeless brown. Faint streaks of dirty blond and black from dye still hadn't washed away, another part of her identity shaped from undercover missions.

She scraped her nail along the dirty glass. Watching the grime listlessly fall into the sink, Nesta scrubbed harder until a section of the mirror was clean. So much dirtiness, filthiness, and nastiness—

Her nail cracked.

She ripped it off, ignoring the sharp pain.

Pain was her friend, her lover she could count on.

Her skin prickled.

Droplets plinked against the cold floor, the hole in the ceiling breezing in drafts of cold air.

She stared at herself, watching those drab gray eyes follow every movement. The past beauty of sparkling, deep blue hints vanished from her orbs, replaced by cold malice.

Nesta washed her hands furiously, allowing the water to run over her palms. She drenched them in soap, violently scrubbing until the cuts reopened. She didn't see the blood pouring from her skin, but the sea of blood from passing faces, bodies hitting the cold pavement, the gurgling of red and belch out of the corners of mouths.

Tomas's leer, the triumphant smile, the whip—

"I am Nesta Archeron," she hissed. "And I will not submit."

No longer.

Tomas was dead.

She shrugged on the simple clothes she had bought and pulled a drawstring sweater over her head.

Nesta stalked outside of the motel, her hood flipped over her face. Pedestrians steered clear of the dark-lined figure, a creation of the night. Her gait invited a challenge that saw the streak of death incarnate.

The soft notes of melody to the driving rhythm escaping from the walls of clubs no longer appealed to her.

The misted clouds curtained the dimly lit stars, polluted by the hands of greed, a parasite worming in every male she knew.

A little rain had begun to fall, umbrellas snapping into the air. A tall man emerged from one of the colorless buildings, a woman holding his hand. Smiles painted their faces, the man pulling of his coat and gently wrapping it around her frame.

Warm voices.

Nesta looked away, and pushed open the door to the diner, where fuzzy lights surrounded her. Settling herself onto a booth in the farthest corner, she skimmed over the menu and all the listings she hadn't heard of.

A little smile worked her way on her mouth as she recognized a few items. Cheeseburger, fries, salad...she could taste the sweetness of strawberries at the roughness of her tongue.

The barbecues she'd participated in when she was little, the smoky smell and cheers of laughter, perhaps a game of tag or hide and sneek—

She clenched her fists as she tried to remember the blurry faces of her childhood, the ones she hid and chased, the ones she smiled freely with. Even then, Elain's and Feyre's outlines were far away, never quite reachable. There was another face, masculine, a voice deep and rich, that memory shielded from her, a warmth as arms cradled her surely.

Nesta remembered laughter.

But remembering was a dangerous thing.

A voice cleared its throat, and Nesta slid a dagger into her hand.

The waiter backed away as Nesta expertly wielded the blade.

"Yes?" she asked, arching a brow.

The waiter sweated, rubbing his palms along his pants. "Your order, miss?"

A presence slid into the booth across from her, and Nesta swore lowly under her breath.

The male smirked back at her.

"Nice to see you here, sweetheart." Cassian grinned.

Her first missed shot. The first time an emotion other than pain seared through her. The way he prowled resembled a true predator's, full of danger and threat.

The male continued to stare at her while he beckoned towards the waiter. "She doesn't like meat, so we'll go with the salmon and a plate of asparagus. Two strawberry smoothies for us." Cassian reached over the table and flipped the menu closed.

Nesta seethed.

The waiter hesitantly took the menu, scribbling down the order. "And you, sir?"

"Large fries."

The waiter scurried away.

She stared down the male, who merely shrugged off his jacket. Nesta caught the glimpse of hilts peeking out from the inside of the material. By the flares of red that flashed, he was more than the spy's friend. Perhaps a bodyguard.

Perhaps just had as much blood on his hands as she.

"If you just wanted to eat dinner alone, then you should have said so."

"Didn't want to hurt your delicate ego."

"Everything about us males are delicate, Nesta," Cassian chided.

She arched her other brow. "What business do you have here." A command.

An easy smile. "A man can't eat?"

"What. Business."

He leaned forward, a string of tension in the air. They stared at each other, neither breaking the silence. The clatter of plates and utensils faded in the backgrounded, and she swore she could have melted in those hazel eyes.

A stirring opened within her, and flashes of a once sanctuary shot down her.

"You don't remember me?" he murmured lowly, almost huskily. Cassian slowly reached out to cradle her hand, running a thumb down her palm.

Nesta shivered as he cupped her hand.

"Who taught you how to throw your first punch?" he whispered.

A burst of memories flooded her, and Nesta jerked her hand back.

Sprinting through the teeming forest—a male pinning a tiger lily to her hair, pulling her up as she tripped over a tree root, leaning down to peck her cheek, saying she was beautifully clumsy, Nesta rubbing off the sloppy kiss, and lunging forward with her fist—

"You didn't teach me," Nesta blurted. "I learned how to myself." She pressed a thumb against her forehead as if she would wash away the intruding memories.

"Oh really? Over a simple kiss?"

"Delicate," she hissed out.

"I'm not the one who didn't tuck in my thumb," he retorted, and reached for her hand again. Cassian tapped the joint bone on her thumb, staring at her, daring her to break the glare. "I'm not the one who continues to run away."

Nesta winced as the images continued to cram into every crevice of her brain.

The hazel-eyed male had gently kissed her, touching her cheek, so softly as if she were a newborn fawn, learning the beginnings of carefree caresses. She'd ripped herself from his grasp, his orbs turning into molten gold, and she'd sprinted away from the forest and its music, away from the male who saw past her walls and dared to find her when she didn't want to see herself.

By the way Cassian was gazing at her, eyes darkening, he was remembering as well.

If Tomas had taught her anything, it was that remembering was dangerous.

Just like this male.

"You're going to run again, aren't you?" Cassian challenged, eyes watching her withdraw her hands and slip gloves over them.

Tomas may be dead, but that didn't mean the scars had vanished as well.

The waiter came over, a wary look shadowing his face.

Nesta didn't blame him. By the way she and the other male—Cassian—was armed, they could bring down this building within a mere minutes.

Setting the plate of fries in front of Cassian, the waiter quickly placed the other items in the middle of the table. Her tongue dried at the sight of the strawberry smoothies topped with swirls of whip cream, her stomach growling at the sight of seasoned food.

Then she sided with the coward's decision, one that carried within every voice of her reason.

When Cassian reached for a fry, the waiter blocking his exit in the booth, Nesta dashed off out of the diner and into the streets, where the clouds remained heavy.

She ignored the bark of protest and the coldness seeping through her as the rain pelted against her face. Snagging her hood up again, Nesta wandered through an alley, watching the line of water stream through the cracks in the ground and slip through the gutters.

Even the rain was not free, bound to follow the laws of nature.

Nesta grabbed one of the pipe rails, and pulled herself up, skimming the side of the building. With a grunt, she kicked herself off the wall and onto the roof. Her hood fell back, the rain welcoming her by pelting her eyelashes.

She rubbed a hand across her face, and peered down at the streets. Only the tops of umbrellas greeted her, save for the quick darting shapes scurrying under the covers of shelter.

Tomorrow she'd resume her search for Elain and Feyre, but watch from afar. Her sisters and her had branched from two different worlds. Tomas had stolen her heart and replaced the hole with ice.

She'd caused too much damage, and once a hole had been carved, no amount of filling could ease the carved out blotches.

Her skin shivered, eyes dully staring at the droplets pelting and plowing down windowpanes.

She'd been snuggled into her blankets, pulling the sheets over her head. A yank had snatched her blissfulness, and he'd gathered her body into his arms. She'd punched his chest to no avail, and screeched when he raced into the night, water slithering down their skin. Despite the wind and night, she'd felt warmer than ever, even before being nestled in her bed.

Nesta flinched. Never before had she truly recoiled from pulling the trigger and slashing the blade, but her memories had changed the game. For once, an occurrence concerned her personally without the sinking of numbness.

No longer did the IV injections and mind games suppress her past.

Her memories had warmed her with fantasy inserted into reality, but also tore her apart. Who was she, with blood on her hands? She could not retreat to the past.

"You know, there's these things called stairs. Wondrously more convenient than shimmying up poles."

She lost how many times she cursed today, and rather continued to stare out into the night's darkness and slanted slopes.

"You wouldn't be a pole dancer, would you, Nesta?"

When she didn't answer, the voice returned, closer than before.

"You'd be the star of the of the show. Once the curtains closed, you'd dance again, blistered and all, to the ghost of the music."

"Seems like you've thought this thoroughly."

"I didn't have to. You were."

Nesta turned around and stared at that roughly-shaven face that bred familiarity. The warmth of her childhood—she refused to accept that it could be this nuisance. Yet...his voice held comfort and kindness, a sorely lacking facet in her new life.

"Not stripping," he corrected quickly, holding his palms out. "A dancer. You were a beautiful ballerina."

She stared at him.

"I was raised an orphan," Cassian said slowly. "I thought I was alone, but you were home. You saw me and felt my pain. Shared it with me."

Home.

Memories flooded her. Tears, rage, and violence.

Things she knew all too well. Too long she'd been homeless.

She refused for home to belong to a person.

"Don't you remember?" he ground out. "I was your everything, Nesta sweetheart."

Those words carved into her.

"How dare you," Nesta seethed. "Claim to know me."

She moved first, a crashing of waves upon the sand, lashing out with the stormy rage of a hurricane. Cassian met her first strike to his knee, managing to block the blow to his face. Nesta twirled, lowering her center of gravity as he lunged forward.

"I'm not the person you knew," she gritted out, slamming a fist into his stomach, reminiscing the familiar inhalation of chemicals. The drugs had consumed her, had snatched her mind with deformed and dried darkness.

Seeing an opening, she drove an elbow to his neck.

"I'm a monster," she growled out, glowering as Cassian managed to grab her wrists with a vice-like grip. He snarled into her face—demanding that she calm down—but she was far from calm.

"I'm alone," she hissed. "Cursed." Her first punch cracked her knuckles as the force of the blow hit his jaw. A swear pierced the air, and she moved around his form, a shadow, a viper she was taught to be.

This was a fight of strength and will, not of the blades and steel. She quelled the urge to sink her daggers into flesh, a finale to all that resisted. Nesta had a feeling this male would be back on his feet in no time even if she drove him to rock bottom.

Perhaps it was his persistence that had her appreciating him.

Cassian smirked at her before mirroring her movements, and then began their dance of sheer ferocity. A kick and a miss, a lunge and a dodge, a strike and a hold.

"Are you?" Cassian whispered, tucking the blade against her throat and kissing her collarbone. "A monster?"

Brute.

Nesta drove her body backward, allowing the momentum to have her fall back. At a split-second, she twisted her body around so that Cassian's body hit the floor. When his gasp slackened, she jabbed his pressure points, watching his head fall against the roof, water sloshing around them both.

Nesta stared at the heart-broken face, and locked away the memories. Only the puddles remained.

"Yes," she whispered. "I am."

She left the boy of her childhood in the cold, the rain sliding down his clothes and over his skin, and walked away.


	4. Chapter 4

_But maybe I've had just too much_

 _To drink, to smoke, to swallow_

 _I'm drowning up my sorrows_

 _There's rules I'll never follow_

 _Pretend there's no tomorrow_

 _I wish there was no tomorrow_

[Nessian AU]

Nesta didn't return to her hotel room. She didn't trust who would show up, a thief in the night. She didn't trust herself, a harbinger of death. She didn't trust her surroundings, flooded with a myriad of memories.

Instead, she strolled to the edges of Varian's apartment, his borders outlined with traps for both humans and animals. With the deft flick of her wrists and the rest of her limbs, she disabled the traps and wires she knew by heart.

If only her own heart could disentangle itself from the tiers of lines and crosses.

Gripping thick vines, which remained the easiest route to climb to the unlocked top window, she launched herself up, and slipped through the top window and into a blackened room.

Deftly inserting a crafted hook through the last lock, the second set of doors groaned open. She swiftly slid through the narrow opening, and slammed the bars shut. Dew pattered along the hallway, and her boots sloshed through puddles. As the lights dimmed, the water vanished.

Frowning, she slowly drew a bobby pin from her nest of hair, and tossed it down the hall. A hissing pierced the air as the plastic melted, and fell to the floor with smoke curling around the piece. The end of her hairs prickled.

Sighing, Nesta yanked out a powdered contraption from her belt, and pulled back the lid. Aiming the contents to near her lips, she blew the clumps in front of her. Red beams flickered into eyesight, intersecting rows and columns of twisted shapes.

"Lasers," she hissed. Stuffed her gear back into the compartment.

It seemed Varian had upgraded.

The red beams began moving, rotating with fickle movements.

Oh, he'd definitely stepped up his game.

Cracking her neck, Nesta rolled her shoulders. Loosed her muscles. Rolled out her ankle.

 _You were a dancer_ , Cassian had said. _A beautiful ballerina._

Tomas had always called her an evil elegance, a divine demoness.

She'd resume that role. Both positions.

Tucking her hair into her hood, she tiptoed to the start of the whirring beams.

Then she began the dance.

Nimble movements and quick steps, a sharp sashay turned into a lunge of a glide with arms arched and legs leaping. Her torso angled and spine curved, eyes narrowed into a cold focus of determination. She bent her knees and twisted her body to match the beat of the beams, twirling her limbs to a tempo long forgotten. Her fingers grazed the walls when possible, nails searching for any buttons. Finding none, she continued her crescendo until her toes balanced delicately at a riff in the floor.

Halting, she tugged her braid out of the hood, studying the empty hole looming beyond her. The lasers behind her lagged into a halt.

Slow clapping echoed, the sound bouncing off the gray and drab walls.

Across the pit stood a small female with dark hair reaching her chin. Silk clad clothes enclosed her tiny frame, silver eyes swirling secrets beyond suspicion.

"You're good," the stranger said, voice taking a reluctant admission. She took in Nesta's dripping form. "And wet."

"Not for me, that's for sure," another voice chimed in—but deeper and huskier.

A dark-skinned male dressed with golden and white fabrics glided into sight, aura shimmering with suns of light. His lips curled up into a smile.

"Helion," Nesta said with as much distaste she could afford.

The dealer had coined himself as a Spell-Cleaver on the streets, foiling plans before they could commence. Tomas had lashed out at her with the whip and bar when her first mission had delayed: steal a drug from Helion's residence, the Day Court.

Helion had fed a false trap, Nesta gathering a dupe of the drug. Tomas had realized the trick months later, and exacted his anger upon her.

Nesta did eventually get the drug into Tomas's hands, but by that time, her back had been littered with lashes.

It wasn't that they didn't get along—no, Helion had been more than a valuable asset on the streets where Varian's weaponry would not suffice—but it seemed the male's advances only notched up every time she shot him down.

"Amren here has been expecting you," the Spell-Cleaver smiled, nodding towards the glaring female. "But not like that," he amended.

"Where's Varian?" Nesta managed to rasp out, dismissing both figures with a glance. The lasers and pit were new, and she if had to fare for another new surprise, the dark and dangerous side she kept locked under key would threaten to surface.

Tomas had always jabbed at her, trying the fuel the fire that raged within her into a conflagration. All attempts to expose her locked exterior was met with the pillar of ice and steel he'd forged her into. For all the circumstances hammering into her flesh and skin, she'd molded herself as well, so that only she could fuel the fire.

But if memory served her right, then the hazel-eyed male—Cassian—was the only other one who knew how to charge her.

 _You run like a sloth trapped in a cheetah's body, Cassian had snorted. Angle your elbows to an ninety degree angle. Your breathing's off. Don't push your shoulders. Inhale, and push your stomach out. Exhale, and push your stomach in. We're not in a dance room, sweetheart. Don't run so much on your tiptoes. Land on the ball of your foot. Lean slightly forward, but from your ankles. You don't need such straight posture._

 _Shut up, Cassian! She'd screamed, and stomped back towards her house. She'd already regretted her decision in having the hulking brute train her. She hadn't needed senseless talk when her dulled senses had failed her—especially when a new neighbor, Tomas, didn't know what boundaries were._

The small figure—Amren—smiled at Nesta—as if she could sense the seas of turmoil rolling within her, threatening to drown everyone, including herself. A touch of dark severity crossed Amren's lips. "When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds."

Nesta evenly stared at her. Tilted her head. "Is that a warning?"

Varian, Helion...this woman in one building. A sickened feeling boiled in her stomach. The pit at the bottom was a dark abyss that awaited in silence.

"Jump," the small female said shortly. A command.

Nesta's head cut shortly towards the other woman, whose smoky, silver eyes swirling could scorch stampedes.

The pit stretched further than this week's dead could bridge. By Helion's raised brows and smirk, she wasn't to jump across.

No, Varian never went about things the easy way. She would have to jump in and see what the hand of cost would enclose. Free duties of patching and healing never went without check. She supposed Helion's presence, along with the smaller dominating one, meant that Varian had something...simmering.

Another game as a pawn she'd been sucked into.

Sighing, Nesta stared at the ceiling.

She wondered what her sisters thought of her.

Sweet Elain—would she run from her? Those rosy cheeks and soft smiles—would they blossom for her? Would murmurs and delicacy accept roughness, tainted with darkness?

Would Feyre, the hunter with a human's soul, hallowed with humanity's' heritage, hold her as one of the heinous? Would the paint strike her with red and black, encased with fire and flame, ice and iniquity?

Or would they caress her like Cassian's surety?

 _You are not a monster_ , he'd fiercely declared.

The blood on her back, the scars on her legs, and the wound in her heart disagreed.

Her nightmares forged from the night's array of nefarious notes dragged her under—had her leaping from one fallen spike to another, had her toiling from one grave through the next, had her plunging into an abyss of animosity.

So she jumped.

* * *

Fire crackled like a cursed cacophony simmering and snapping with her. If there was a rope tethering her to anything—anything solid, anything concrete, anything firm—the cord would have snapped eons ago. Only abstract anguish annihilated her air. Time ran along an unknown barrier, and her lungs burned, dryness coating her parched throat. Her limbs cracked, ears red and bleeding.

Her insides felt...light. Beyond the burning, her soul was a feather flying, soaring through a medium matched with madness. There was something about submitting herself to the strange shadows with a stringed shell that made...letting go easy.

Her mind was heavy, dark and dampened. Destroyed. A burden settled at the bottom of her heart, where dust collected from the scorched sizzling. The manifesting pain prodding into her head could only scrape along the dried dents of distorted pillars, molded by lattices of ice.

"Nesta Archeron," a deep, ringing voice husked, resounding to echo in her marrow.

She couldn't move her lips or wiggle her toes.

She remained trapped in this body—if it even belonged to her, forged with the sin's fury and fleshed from forgiveness—she had no control over.

She laid still as the syllables rolled over, her own tongue tasting foreign.

"I am sorry," the voice said.

Sorry—

—A word that meant the action committed would not be repeated.

So a new action would arise.

One she would have no control over.

"You will not agree with me when cashing in this favor. In the end you will thank me for the temporarily possession."

Her brain clicked. A lightbulb turned on.

"Varian," she managed. "Please."

 _Sorry sorry sorry._

But mercy held no heart in the streets. Not for kindness, and especially not for family. Loyalty served no greater evil except the confined souls.

So her brain closed down, and the light flared out.

"One last drugging," Varian whispered, and the voice vanished. "One more time."

Emptiness filled her instead.

* * *

The microchip in her ear itched.

But her hands refused to scratch it.

"Two sisters owe me blood rubies," the machine whirred. "They've come into town. Now it's time to collect."

A distant memory rang as a bell. Red rubies for crimes committed. For what reasons, they flew away with the fickle breeze.

Nesta tightened her braid, and stalked down the alley. Instructions had been given to her, fed to her, and bathed her body. She was as much machine as the piece in her ear.

All she knew were the orders.

 _Fill the two vials with the blood of the two sisters. The black one for the youngest sister and the green one for the middle sister._

She wondered who the eldest sister was.

She wondered if she meant anything to them.

She wondered if they meant anything to her.

But thoughts run loose were dangerous things.

So she lost herself in her mission instead.

"Knock on the front door," the chip instructed. "They will recognize you. Offer you shelter. Comfort. Friendship. They will act as a family. But they are lies."

 _Lies._ She abhorred liars.

The path to the rented house was a pristine picture. Towering sunflowers and moon lilies danced in the fading sunlight. Sunned stones and paved pebbles engraved in a slightly winding path for easy meandering to amble upon. The bird's beats transitioned to the cricket's chirps.

She rapped her knuckles against the front door, slightly closing her eyes. The needle snuggled into her hip gear felt heavier, and a sense of dread wash over her horizons.

The door opened.

A gasp pierced the air.

Nesta looked up through half-lidded eyes, and blinked warily. She knew that face and recognized those blue-gray eyes that mirrored her own. Golden brown hair cascaded around sturdy shoulders, paint flecking on freckles.

It could not be a coincidence.

"Nesta," the woman breathed, and pulled her in for a hug. "By the Cauldron, what happened? How are you here? When—where have you been?"

 _Lie to the liars_ , the microchip whirred. _You do not know them._

Nesta swallowed. "Does it matter?"

The other woman scrutinized her closely. Finally she pursed her lips, and swung the door open. "Elain will be ecstatic to see you."

Elain, Elain, Elain. Where had she heard those words before?

It doesn't matter, the chip clicked, repeating her words. Bring the blood.

And so Nesta stepped inside the hearth, the woman unknowingly leading a monster into her home.

* * *

"Elain didn't take your disappearance well. As her unofficial guardian angel, she lost her protector that day. At first, Elain was devastated."

 _Elain, Elain, Elain._

So she knew these two. Well enough. Close enough.

 _Lies_ , the earpiece crackled.

"Then she had to learn how to adapt. To see what the real world was. And it wasn't soft and calm. No longer she couldn't hide with you as her shield."

They walked down a hallway, and the woman stopped in the middle, her gaze uplifting to the framed pictures.

Nesta stilled.

The woman motioned to the nearest one.

"I painted Elain's transformation. You might not want to tell us what happened for those years, but I will tell you about Elain's."

Blue hues coated every line, a wilted, weeping figure wallowing in a bathtub, eyes shut, tears running down. Nails bit into the hunched figure's skin, a silent shadow consuming the girl more than a tsunami could inundate every pore. _Metal in the mental mind_ , the inscription scrawled.

"Elain drowned. And when she arose, she was a cold creature. She'd burnt herself out as a candle for all, and your leave took away the wick. She was left in the dark. It takes a certain type of person to thrive in the darkness, and that is not Elain. Was not her, at least."

The next picture was a girl with makeup adorning her face staring into a mirror. The reflection saw a fallen shadow with hooded eyes, filled with failed smiles and clean thorns. A sense of brokenness trailed along, a facet that destruction was creation. _The Ouroborus_ , the label pressed.

"The first two males—Graysen and Lucien—in her life were not kind to her. One wanted her to conform to him, and the other wanted her to belong to him. Both bound her to themselves in a way, without realizing her mind was fractured beyond repair. You cannot fix something that doesn't want to be fixed, and the third male knew that."

The next painting saw two shadows wrapped around one another, a mirror with a mouth gaping wide, threatening to suck both souls in. Water pooled around the floor with shards embedding around the walls. Rose petals listlessly drooped in clumps, turning brown and brittle.

"Who is that," Nesta demanded, staring at the other figure in the painting. A sense of duty and protectiveness snapped within her.

"The first two males' possessiveness almost reminded her of you," the woman continued instead. "You were a living reminder in our heads. We knew you traversed in the night. And we knew you always came home. Until you didn't."

Nesta inhaled sharply.

"But here you are," the woman said, spreading out her arms wide. "And what will you do next, Nesta? Leave again?"

 _Tomas yanked her into the trunk, squeezing her wrists hard enough to draw blood. "Leaving the party so soon?"_

 _She flinched when the hood came down._

 _"I have work," she quickly said, fear rising within, swarming faster than any rapid. It was too dark, and she couldn't see anything. She needed to leave—flee—no place Tomas would follow her. "The library's only open for intellectuals."_

 _"Don't be a bitch," he sneered. "You exist for me. That's what these—" He palmed her breasts "—are for."_

 _Nesta made way to scream, but he slapped her cheek. The sting stunned her into silence, and he opened her legs. She kicked up, and moved every bone in her body, attempting to worm herself out._

 _But she was no match in her current situation._

 _One drink, he'd said, and that one drink had left her head spinning and her malleable. Her neighbor stalker had turned into reality's nightmare. He was a liar. Like all things in life._

 _"Besides this body, you do have this delicious cunningness," Tomas continued. "That mind and body could do works in this new field."_

 _"Let me go," she panted, and tried to find anything to hit him with._

 _When her hands reached out, he easily snapped chains, a smirk armed on his face. "Why don't you give it a try, Nesta? My work can make you very wealthy."_

 _Nesta screamed. Struggled to hit him with her elbows. Failed when cold hands trailed down her legs, and rubbed her feet._

 _Tomas nearly dropped the locks around her ankles, and swore loudly. Then he punched her in the stomach, and her screams turned into pitches of hiccups. "Stop stop stop no please," She sobbed out._

 _"Shut up, slut," he hissed, and slapped her again._

 _A pounding from the outside of the car broke his reverie._

 _"Is everything okay in there?" a man's voice called. "I heard screaming."_

 _Tomas cursed, and kicked her jaw. Her body folded on top of herself, her mind spinning into a thousand directions, a kaleidoscope seeing moving mosaics._

 _"Everything's fine, officer," Tomas called out, and her heart soared._

 _She screamed again, but the sound was a whimper._

 _Something cold was pressed into her palm. A click._

 _"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" Tomas snapped._

 _"Are you sure?" the man replied. "I'd like for you to open up just to—"_

 _"If you want Elain and Feyre to remain perfectly fine at the party with my men surrounding them, you will shoot the man once I open the trunk," Tomas ordered._

 _"Hey, can you hear me?" the man shouted again, and a hesitant bang landed on the trunk._

 _Nesta furiously shook her head. Tears leaked out and down, her hands shaking. Her fingers refused to hold the gun, but Tomas shoved it back into her hand._

 _"I'll wonder if Elain will make sounds as sweet as she is. Do you think Feyre will enjoy painting with her fingers gone?" Tomas leered._

 _"Open up!" the man said._

 _"Just pull the trigger," Tomas whispered, guiding her arm straight forward._

 _"I will not repeat myself one more time—_

 _Tomas propped the trunk open._

 _A police officer with his hands reaching for his radio paused. His eyes widened—full of the matching fear Nesta felt—and then rolled back as the bullet tore through his jugular._

 _His body hit the floor._

 _She didn't see the rain wash away the blood as the trunk slammed shut._

 _"Now you know what you'll being doing in my business," Tomas clucked his tongue in confirmation. He finished tightening the chains around her, while she trembled in shock._

 _The gun lay at the bottom of the trunk, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. Her mind swam and her heart sunk._

 _The image of the body, the flesh torn apart, the radio clattering to the ground. "I didn't mean to," she wept to one. Would there be penance for her? Would her sisters look at her the same way again?"_

 _"Of course you did,," Tomas cooed. "Elain and Feyre would be proud of you."_

 _Nesta shook, goosebumps rising across her skin_

 _Elain. Feyre._

 _She didn't hear Tomas crawl to the front of the truck and start the engine._

 _Elain. Feyre._

 _So this meant that this woman was—_

"Feyre," Nesta breathed.

Feyre lifted her head, dulled eyes meeting one another. Swallowed. "It's good to have you back home, older sister."

 _"Welcome to your new home," Tomas had said. "My divine demoness."_

 _Nesta, swallowing the bile rising in her mouth, had watched the gun roll around the floor of the trunk._

 _And realized two things._

 _One, no longer was she innocent. She was a killer._

 _A monster._

 _Two, she was irreversibly, and irrevocably fucked._


End file.
